


if i knew what you would do

by chromatic_indifference



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Bullying, Cigarettes, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromatic_indifference/pseuds/chromatic_indifference
Summary: There is a reason destructive rhymes with seductive. The paper scratching his lips, the heat burning his lungs, the smoke blinding his eyes--that’s the addiction. The pain that comes with it, not just the pleasure.





	if i knew what you would do

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a couple years ago and completely forgot about it until now. anyway, enjoy some angst content

He remembers the negatives. He recites the statistics ritually when he flicks the lighter.

But there is a reason destructive rhymes with seductive. The paper scratching his lips, the heat burning his lungs, the smoke blinding his eyes--that’s the addiction. The pain that comes with it, not just the pleasure. Sometimes, he finds blood on his fingers, from when he unknowingly bit through the chapped skin on his lips and wiped it away. The back of his throat is constantly burned from holding the smoke in his lungs for too long. He doesn’t wear gloves or hide his hands in his pockets because he loves to feel the cold New York air stinging the tips of his fingers, cold from the slow circulation to his hands and feet. Every growl of his shrinking stomach makes him feel beautiful. Small. Slowly disappearing, until one day his body will resemble only the ashes burning on the end of each cigarette.

He inhales every regret, every mistake, and then he exhales, and everything disappears. Everytime a criminal has screamed at him, blaming him for ruining their lives. Everytime he was too late to save someone from being mugged, or raped, or murdered. Everytime Flash has embarrassed or degraded Peter in front of people. None of it exists when the nicotine circulates through his bloodstream. None of it exists when he relaxes into the sound of his own rugged exhale, and his eyes follow the trail of rising smoke as it diffuses into the air around him. None of it exists when he can feel the ridges of his spinal cord press against the brick wall behind him.

Some memories are harder to forget then others. The way Mr. Stark looked at him, yelled at him, after his actions almost resulted in the deaths of hundreds of people on the ferry. The sound of the shaky last breath that escaped his uncle’s lips when he died in Peter’s arms. The derogatory names Skip whispered in his ear when he forced Peter on his stomach, and the feeling of the hand clasped over his mouth that kept him quiet. With the rest of his mind silent, memories like these pushed their way into the foreground of his thoughts. Sometimes, no matter how many cigarettes he left crumbling in the dirt, he couldn’t push them away. On those days, he ended the night clambering through his window with bleeding knuckles and had to pick out the brick and rock sticking in the skin on his hands.

It was difficult to hide his habit. Karen instantly informed Mr. Stark of his smoking when she detected it the first time. He begged her not to, told her to stop, that he was okay, but she ignored him. Mr. Stark called him back to the tower and yelled at him. “You’re being stupid.” He said. “You’ll get addicted. Do you know how hard it is to stop?” Aunt May could smell it on his clothes when she did his laundry. She gave him a similar lecture. Ned found a pack of cigarettes in his drawer. He questioned Peter, but he didn’t get upset. Peter lied at first and told him he was just trying it, that it was a one time thing. But Ned soon figured out that wasn’t the case. He treated it lightly, but Peter could see the concern in his eyes. There was a slimmer of truth with every threat of addiction and illness that Ned jokingly threw his way.

He didn’t stop. Everyone knew it. But their anger diminished over time. May still threw him angry glances when he opened the door and she smelled the smoke wafting off his clothes. Tony rolled his eyes when a health report showed traces of nicotine in his system. Ned got annoyed whenever Peter had to drop what he was doing with him and go outside for a smoke.

He wanted to want it to stop: the pain, the memories, the irritation. He wanted to find his burned lips and yellow fingernails ugly. He wanted the self-hatred and guilt of his suppressed memories to crush him. He wanted to hate the looks of anger and pity and disappointment from his family. Instead, he craved it. Hopelessness left him cold and empty, but it was his oxygen. Happiness only choked him, like a sticky, humid substance caught in the back of his throat. To him, depression was liberating. And he hated it.


End file.
